


The Net Under the Ledge

by ShowMeAHero



Series: The Newborn Influence Affair [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Adoption, Babies, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Family, Fluff, Future Fic, Kid Fic, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 18:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5301425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon tended to be something of a motor mouth when relaxed. When he was on his game, every word out of his mouth had a purpose; when he was unwound and at ease, whatever he was thinking tended to just flow up from his lungs and out of his mouth. For example, lying next to Illya, both of them still catching their breath, and he says, “Have you ever wanted a child?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Net Under the Ledge

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of people were asking how Napoleon and Illya acquired the baby. Here's her origin story.
> 
> Title taken from ["Something I Need" by OneRepublic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qKCGBgOgp08).

Napoleon tended to be something of a motor mouth when relaxed. When he was on his game, every word out of his mouth had a purpose; when he was unwound and at ease, whatever he was thinking tended to just flow up from his lungs and out of his mouth.

For example, lying next to Illya, both of them still catching their breath, and he says, “Have you ever wanted a child?”

Illya turns his head to the side on his pillow, chest heaving, and he furrows his eyebrows, lines digging into his forehead as he stares at Napoleon in confusion. “What?”

“I was just thinking,” Napoleon says.

“Dangerous,” Illya replies.

“I was just _thinking_ ,” Napoleon says again, “that we might be okay at that. And I was thinking that  _you_ might be particularly good at it.”

“We are spies,” Illya reminds him, pulling up onto one elbow, chin in his palm. Napoleon rolls onto his own side and traces patterns into Illya’s chest.

“We are spies, yes,” Napoleon agrees. “But we could take a break. Then do both.” Napoleon looks up at him, his hair falling into his eyes. He blows up at it to brush it out of his face; Illya reaches out and smooths it back for him, nails scratching against Napoleon’s scalp as he starts to run his fingers through Napoleon’s hair, and Napoleon pushes his head into Illya’s hand. “Did you never think about it?”

Illya raises an eyebrow. “I am surprised you think about it.”

“I mean,” Napoleon begins, then frowns. “I don’t know. I never did. But I just…” He sighs and talks more to Illya’s mouth than to his eyes. “You make me think about it.”

Illya stares hard at him, unmoving, unblinking. Napoleon lets him, because he knows how Illya gets when he starts to think deeply about something. He waits patiently, starting to stroke absent designs onto Illya’s chest again with a feather-light touch. Illya eventually returns to him.

“We should consider,” Illya starts, then stops. “Yes. We should consider.”

“Okay,” Napoleon agrees. “We should. I agree.”

The next time the topic is brought up, Napoleon is rolling out dough to make pasta, and Illya is reading the newspaper at the table. They are both waiting for Gaby to call them and let them know the next step of their mission for the morning. Illya flips the page of his newspaper, takes a sip of his nearly-white coffee, then looks up at Napoleon.

“I have been thinking,” Illya says, “about a child.”

Napoleon glances up at him, flour across his nose and up on his forehead, streaked through his hair, brushed off on his apron. “Have you? What sorts of thoughts?”

“Positive ones,” Illya replies. He folds up his newspaper and sets it on the table. “I do not know… Perhaps not now.”

“Perhaps not now,” Napoleon echoes, tone inching towards agreement. “We have plenty of time to prepare, I’m sure.”

“Of course,” Illya says. “I am hesitant, while we are… us.”

“We’ll always be us, Peril,” Napoleon says, pulling the dough apart. Illya picks up his newspaper again and flips back to his page.

It feels less like they have plenty of time when Napoleon gets captured two weeks later, and it takes Illya and Gaby three days to find him. When they do, eventually, find him, Illya all but drags him to their getaway car, heaving him into the backseat with him while Gaby drives expertly, weaving through the streets of Cairo. Illya smacks Napoleon on the cheek to keep him awake, and Napoleon blinks up at him, face smeared and bloody but smiling up at him.

“You must stay awake,” Illya orders, and both of them can hear the unspoken command, _You must stay alive._ “You must meet child. You promised.”

“I didn’t,” Napoleon says blearily, “but I will now.”

Illya kisses him, and Gaby turns her attention away from the rear-view mirror and back to the road, and Napoleon sighs and falls unconscious. When he wakes up, Illya is hovering over him.

“Keep your promise,” Illya says, before anything else, and Napoleon reaches out for him. Illya hesitates before grabbing his hand, tangling their fingers together, there in the empty room.

“I will,” Napoleon vows, and Illya squeezes his hand.

It is a month after that that Napoleon receives a fairly frantic letter from his younger sister. He once had two younger sisters; now, he only has one, she is the absolute only family he has left, and he loves her more than perhaps anyone else, or at least tied with Illya. Her name is Mariella, and she is a great deal like her brother. She tends to stay off the grid, and the two of them only meet up when they are both sure nobody is watching either of them. They do, however, exchange a great deal of letters and, sometimes, phone calls, and Napoleon only just received a letter from her two days before.

He flicks open the envelope with his letter opener and unfolds it. His sister’s handwriting is fast and shaky, and he reads the letter through twice before handing it over to Illya. Illya takes it with a confused furrow to his brow, places his glasses on his face, and reads it through.

“Should we?” Napoleon asks, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Illya sets the letter down and removes his glasses. Napoleon drops his hand, and they make eye contact.

“Write her back,” Illya ultimately replies. “Tell her we will help her. I will call Gaby, tell her we are taking vacation this week.”

“We may be taking a longer vacation than that, Peril,” Napoleon says, picking up paper and pen and writing a reply to his sister while Illya dials Gaby’s secured line. In two days, Napoleon and Illya are flying to California. They meet Mariella in a diner. Illya has never met her before, and is struck by how much she resembles her brother. She keeps her sunglasses on when she greets them outside the diner, hugging Napoleon and kissing Illya’s cheek. She has dark hair, pulled up and back, and it curls down her back. When she takes off her sunglasses inside, her eyes are a brilliant blue. She sips at her water.

“I don’t know what to do,” Mariella says to them, and Napoleon, seated beside her, puts an arm around her. Illya sits across from her and tries not to seem too large or physically imposing. Napoleon kisses the top of her head; Mariella smacks at his chest.

“Illya and I were thinking,” Napoleon says, “about adopting a baby anyways.”

Mariella looks up at him, brow furrowed. “ _You?_ ”

“Me,” Napoleon confirms. He glances up at Illya. “Sometimes, a person makes you think differently than you might have before.”

“You are a miracle worker,” Mariella tells Illya. She reaches out and pats Illya’s hand. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” Illya answers. Mariella looks to Napoleon, who nods.

“Only if you’re sure,” Napoleon says, and Mariella leans into him, briefly.

“I am,” Mariella assures him. “Believe me, this is… It’s just not for me, Leo.”

“I know,” Napoleon replies. Mariella and Napoleon share an apple pie, which Mariella feeds Illya a bite of. She kisses both of them before they leave, and promises to send them letters every day. She says she will see them in six months. Napoleon and Illya are mostly quiet on the plane ride home. Napoleon kisses Illya a fair few times, and, once they land, they visit Gaby before they even go home.

“Now will you two tell me where you went?” Gaby asks, once she has them both in her apartment with tumblers of whiskey in their hands. “I have been stalling with Waverly since you left. I will lie for you, but I do not like to.”

“We’re adopting a baby,” Napoleon says, and Gaby chokes on her drink. It takes twenty minutes to convince her they are serious, and it is mostly persuasion on Illya’s part that proves it to her. “We know we can’t both be listed as-”

“You will,” Gaby insists. “I will push it through. Waverly will help me.”

“I do not-”

“Hush,” Gaby interrupts, raising a hand, and Illya lifts an eyebrow at her. “You, do not worry about this. I will fix it all for you.” She eyes them both. “Are you leaving U.N.C.L.E.?”

“No,” they reply simultaneously. Gaby looks between them; they look at each other.

“Think of it as a short leave of absence,” Napoleon says. “But we would never leave. We’ll be here until they come, and we’ll be back as soon as we can manage it.”

Gaby got up and wriggled her way into the space between them on her sofa. She kisses each of their cheeks and settles in.

“I better be their godmother,” Gaby says, and downs the rest of her drink. Napoleon raises his own drink in toast before taking a sip of it.

Napoleon and Illya are back in California in only three months, after Napoleon receives a hysterical phone call from his sister. The first time they see their daughter, they cannot hold her, cannot touch her, can only watch while her life is saved. Napoleon comments that he has never seen a smaller human being, and Illya squeezes his hand so tightly Napoleon worries for his nerves and his knuckles. The first time they are allowed to hold her, Illya insists Napoleon holds her first. Napoleon takes her from the doctor and cradles her against his chest. He gets his hold corrected three times before he has it right, and he only tears his eyes off her face long enough to look up at Illya, who kisses the top of his head and stares at her. Napoleon never saw himself having a child before he met Illya; now, he cannot imagine life without either of them. The baby wriggles against him, impossibly tiny and soft and small, and she whimpers and yawns. Napoleon surrenders her to Illya, eventually. He wishes he had a camera, because the difference between their sizes is almost comical. He can see, in Illya’s eyes, how much Illya loves her, and sees himself fall to second place, and he has never been happier to be there.

Napoleon’s heart pounds in his chest for another month and a half before they can take her home to New York, and even then it only barely stops. Napoleon and Illya prefer to keep her close, and Napoleon lets her sleep on his chest while Illya wraps himself around them. They discussed it at length, and Napoleon feels a little bad that Illya will not have his perfect Russian child, although he never mentions it to Illya and Illya never implies anything in that direction, so Napoleon suggests they give her a Russian name. His only stipulation is that it should be manageable for an American. Illya is overjoyed, and he follows traditional Russian naming rules. They decide, together, to name her Gavriila, for Gaby.

“Gavriila,” Napoleon murmurs, pacing back and forth across their kitchen, their baby tucked against his chest as he walks. She is mostly asleep, and he traces the line of her eyebrows with his thumb. “That’ll be a bitch to spell.”

“She can have American nickname,” Illya suggests. “Like you say.”

Napoleon thinks for a moment. Then, “Ella.”

Illya peers down at her. “Ella. Yes.”

She gets the middle name Illyinichna, because Illya surrenders to tradition and Napoleon thinks it is too sweet to turn away. She technically has two middle names, because she cannot have two last names, so Kuryakin becomes a second middle name that they will tell her is her last name, and Solo is tacked on at the end. Illya bends over them and kisses Gavriila’s cheek. Ella squirms and blinks blearily up at him, and Illya rests his forehead against Napoleon’s, the two of them looking down at her. She yawns, and Napoleon sighs, and Illya burns the image into his brain.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, this series is going to be more than the one-shot I originally intended for it, so feel free to ask for things you might want to see, since it's basically just a series of one-shots now. I make no promises, but I always like to give and to share.
> 
> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicoIodeon](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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